


Green Room Gossip

by AVAAntares



Category: Remember WENN
Genre: Comedy, Gen, Marriage, Misunderstandings, Unfinished
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 20:49:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14245464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AVAAntares/pseuds/AVAAntares
Summary: Scott Sherwood had long ago deciphered Betty's knack for pouring the contents of her own heart into her radio scripts. That's how he knew, when Mavis Baxter accepted Lord Brendan's proposal of marriage, that Betty Roberts had decided to invest in a white dress and change her name to Comstock.The rest of the staff of WENN were not so perceptive with regard to Betty's scripts. It is likely that they would not have learned the shocking news at all, if not for... (PLEASE READ NOTES)





	Green Room Gossip

**Author's Note:**

> Be aware: This story is unfinished. Read on to learn why.
> 
> When Remember WENN debuted, I was 15 years old. I instantly fell in love with the show and the characters and, being an impressionable teenager deeply immersed in her first online fandom (hey, the internet was brand new, OK?), I drew pictures and wrote stories about it (I would later learn the terms "fanart" and "fanfic," but I didn't know them then). There were no fanfic archives back then; the WENN fanzines were sent out by mail, photocopied and stapled together. I never submitted my stories to the fanzines, probably because I was 15 and it didn't occur to me that someone else might want to read them.
> 
> Recently I was sorting through some old boxes and found a spiral notebook filled with notes from my high school trigonometry class. In between the notes -- and in some cases, actually written directly over my homework -- I discovered pages of a Remember WENN story I'd apparently written my junior year of high school. I had very little memory of it, but it was in my handwriting, and I _definitely _hated trig enough to be writing fanfic instead of paying attention in class...__
> 
> __Unfortunately, since it had been more than 20 years since I began the story, I had no memory of the path the narrative was going to take. I can tell where it was headed (see notes at end), so I considered finishing it, but ultimately I decided that rather than trying to shoehorn in an ending in a completely different writing style, I'd just leave the beginning here for posterity. After all, AO3 is intended to be an archive, and there's not much fanfic from the 1990s saved here._ _
> 
> __So I hope you enjoy what there is of this story, despite its lack of ending. And be gentle -- I wrote this when I was 16. :)_ _

Scott Sherwood had long ago deciphered Betty's knack for pouring the contents of her own heart into her radio scripts. That's how he knew, when Mavis Baxter accepted Lord Brendan's proposal of marriage, that Betty Roberts had decided to invest in a white dress and change her name to Comstock.

The day of that broadcast, Sherwood left the station four hours early and was seen stumping in the direction of the nearest bar, though no one at the station knew why. The rest of the staff of WENN were not so perceptive with regard to Betty's scripts. It is likely that they would not have learned the shocking news at all, if not for...

 

**Green Room Gossip**

_**A WENNfiction from the long-lost high school notebook of AVA** _

 

Mackie Bloom was in the green room, browsing through the morning headlines and tentatively sipping a cup of stale black Ingram's Coffee, when Maple broke the news to him.

“Psst! Hey, Mackie!” The buxom redhead crept through the swinging doors, nervously surveying the outside hallway through the broken glass.

“Ah, good morning, Maple. Care for some motor oil?” Mackie lifted his coffee mug, one he'd brought from home. The station's supply of cups had been depleted earlier in the week, when Jeff Singer had made the mistake of flirting with one of the sponsors' secretaries while his wife was standing near the coffee service. The scars of Hilary's poorly-aimed projectiles could be seen all over the walls and furniture.

Maple waved away the offer and placed herself opposite the man of a thousand voices, avoiding the recent coffee stains on the upholstery. “Mackie,” she began, “I need that I should ask you something concerning events which transcripted prior to my arrival here at this station.”

Mackie blinked. “How's that?”

The organist's apple-red lips pursed in annoyance. “I know Betty pretty well,” she explained. “But Victor was still a stiff when I came here, so I need you to tell me about... what kind of relationship they had—you know, before.”

Mackie digested this. “But why?” he asked, and his lips curved conspiratorially. “Maple, you red-haired Sheba, have you got your eye on Victor?”

Maple shot him a disapproving look, then reconsidered. “Oh, I'm all eyes for Victor,” she smiled. “He's tall, polite, financially secure...” Abruptly she returned to the subject at hand. “But Mackie, I think somethin's up between Victor and Betty.”

“You know, Maple, you might be on to something there.” Mackie slurped his bitter beverage and flipped a page to skim the racing results. “I hear she's actually stopped calling him Mr. Comstock, and goes around referring to him as Victor now.” He ducked just in time to avoid the crocheted pillow that Maple flung in his direction. “Been taking lessons from Hilary, I see,” Mackie added.

“I'm serious, Mackie! I think they might be...” She glanced over her shoulder at the door, then looked back at Mackie and waved her left hand meaningfully. “You know? They might be.”

Mackie squinted at her wriggling fingers. “C'mon, Maple, spit it out. We're both adults; what might they be?”

“I think they're hitchin' up for good!” she blurted. “Betty's been actin' awful strange. Scott's practically suicidal. I don't know what else to think, except that they're engaged.”

“That's ridiculous,” Mackie scoffed. “They may write letters, but he's away in Washington all the time, and you know how busy she is. Betty and Victor couldn't possibly be...”

The door opened abruptly, admitting Betty with an armload of papers. Humming to herself, she strolled over to the table and offered fresh scripts to the actors. “Morning, Mackie, Maple. I have _Bedside Manor_ , _Hobo Bo_ , and _Captain Amazon_ for you, sir. Maple, here's _Wee Mary MacGregor_ and _Sam Dane_. I'll have _Bridal Bouquet_ done in a few months—er, minutes.” She left the green room, smiling, and giggled to herself as the door swung closed behind her.

“...happier,” Mackie finished his dangling sentence. “Oh, Maple, what are we going to do? If Betty's really engaged, her scripts are going to turn to mush!”

“Forget the scripts,” a heavy voice rasped from the doorway, where Scott had entered unnoticed. Mackie and Maple stared at him in shock: Scott's normally smooth salt-and-pepper hair was tousled, his shirt rumpled and open at the collar, his face ashen. He seemed ready to collapse. Maple went to support him, cringing at the overpowering reek of alcohol.

“Oh, Scotty, when was the last time you slept?” She helped him to the couch.

“Slept,” Mackie repeated. “Sleep. Bed. Bedside Manor! I'm on!” He dashed across the hall, scripts in hand.

Maple slid one of the much-abused cushions beneath Scott's head and seated herself on the armrest, waiting for him to speak. Scott always spoke. He was the type who could never remain silent, even when his own welfare depended on it. But now he simply sat, dazed, his face slack as he looked into space.

“Scotty,” Maple opened cautiously after a moment of silence, “we've been pals a long time...”

“I've lost her, Mapes,” Sherwood moaned piteously. “The only girl I ever even thought about settling down for. She's going to marry that... that...” His face crumpled. “Oh, that's the worst part,” he slurred.

Maple put a sympathetic arm around his shoulder. “What is?”

“I can't even think of something bad to call him. I can't hate Victor. I'd pick him too, faced with the two of us. There's nothing bad you can say about Victor... except that he has Betty. My Betty...” With a miserable groan, Scott fell over into Maple's lap.

Maple patted Scott's head as if she were soothing an animal. “Well,” she said after a moment of thought, “Victor's losing his hair... That's it, you could call him Baldy. Would that make you feel better?”

Scott squinted up at her wretchedly, then dropped his head again.

“Apparently not,” sighed Maple, and picked up her script. If Scott were going to keep her pinned down here, she might as well be practicing her lines.

* * *

Twenty-three minutes later, the husband-wife cast of _Bedside Manor_ slipped out of Studio A while C.J. spun a record of some Very Special Announcement on the air. Jeff headed for the lobby, while Hilary made a beeline for the green room, the shadows under her eyes wordlessly announcing her need for coffee. She swept through the swinging doors and scooped up the pot, then frowned at the lack of cups near the percolator.

“What happened to all the... oh,” she said, catching sight of Scott and Maple as she turned to look for something to pour coffee into. “I told Sherwood that fast living would catch up with him eventually,” she scoffed, and continued her search. “Who pinched my favorite mug?”

“Would that be the mug that went through this window” —Mackie tapped the broken glass of the door as he entered— “or the mug you were aiming at?”

Hilary glared daggers at him and set down the pot of coffee. Before she could formulate a scathing reply, they were distracted by an inarticulate mumble from the couch. Hilary raised an eyebrow at the lump that vaguely resembled Scott Sherwood.

“Pardon me for asking, Mabel, but aren't you two supposed to be on the air in...” she glanced at the clock, “six minutes? Unless this is some new form of method acting with which I am not familiar, I don't think Sherwood is in any condition to take the stage.”

“Oh, leave him alone,” Maple scowled back at her. “He's just upset because of... well... you know.”

Hilary blinked at her expectantly for a moment, then realized that further exposition was not forthcoming. “I fear your psychic broadcasting abilities have failed you again,” she snipped, fixing her hands on her hips. “What, pray tell, has transmuted our actor-of-dubious-credentials into a gibbering gelatinous mass? Or are you merely as sticky as your tree-sap name would suggest?”

Maple would have sent Scott tumbling to the floor and lashed out at Hilary had Mackie not intervened. “I believe Maple is referring to the engagement,” he said, giving both ladies a warning look.

“Engagement?” Hilary frowned. “I haven't been approached for any engagement, and there certainly aren't any theatres in Pittsburgh worth crying over—unless you mean the sorry condition of their dressing rooms,” she sniffed.

“ _Betty's_ engagement,” Mackie corrected.

“Since when is Betty an actress?”

“To _Victor_ ,” Maple continued, glaring. There was a sorrowful moan from the Sherwood-shaped lump, and Maple patted it sympathetically.

It took Hilary a moment to piece it together. “Betty? And Victor? Engaged?” There was a note of incredulity in her voice, but she recovered quickly. “Let's see... the bridesmaids' gowns will have to be burgundy. With white lilies. Yes, and gold trim, not silver.”

Maple slid out from beneath Scott and stood. “Hilary, you can’t plan the wedding before they even announce their engagement!”

“I'm just being practical,” Hilary replied with her best Broadway smile. “Naturally, Victor will want Jeffrey to be the best man, and who else but me would Betty want for her maid of honor? I look good in burgundy; therefore, the dresses must be that color.”

“Shouldn't that be _matron_ of honor?” Mackie muttered, and earned a scowl from Hilary.

Maple put her hands on her well-shaped hips and glared at Hilary. “I'm sure Betty would want _all_ of us to be involved in the wedding,” she hissed, “and as it so happens, burgundy clashes with my hair.”

“Just like weddings clash with your personality,” Hilary riposted.

“Ladies!” Mackie interrupted, easing toward Hilary, whose elbow was entirely too close to the percolator for his comfort. “Why don't we just wait for Betty to decide what...”

“Stay out of this, Mackie,” Hilary bit. “The only experience you've ever had with weddings is avoiding them.” A few seconds passed before she realized what she had said. She put her hand to her mouth in horror, but the damage had been done.

Mackie's eyes narrowed, and his voice dropped into the range he used for dramatic roles on the radio. “Forgive me, Miss Booth,” he answered smoothly. “You would be the one to know all about weddings, seeing as how you've had six or seven yourself.”

Maple sucked in a breath and glanced from Mackie to Hilary, her own ire forgotten in the face of this new threat. Hilary's face had gone white, her eyes stretched wide as she stared at Mackie in shocked disbelief. Mackie pivoted stiffly toward the door.

“If you'll excuse me,” he said, “I'm needed on the air.” The door clapped loudly behind him, only to be caught on the swing and opened again. Jeff Singer stepped into the room with a genial smile.

“Morning, everyone...” His smile faded as he tasted the tense atmosphere, and his gaze swung from Hilary's blanched face to Scott's prone body. His eyes flicked automatically to the percolator, and he sighed with relief when he saw that it was still on the sideboard.

“Show's starting,” said Maple after a moment, and brushed past Jeff's shoulder. Jeff blinked after her for a few seconds, then turned back to his wife.

“What's going on?”

Hilary sank slowly into a chair, smoothing the emotion from her face with the practice of years. “Betty and Victor are engaged,” she said casually.

Jeff's eyes widened in surprise. “That's... unexpected,” he said. “And... no one seems to be taking it very well,” he added. He glanced at Sherwood, dangling off the couch. “Well, as well as can be expected, I suppose,” he murmured.

The door opened suddenly, bumping against Jeff's back. “Oh! I'm sorry,” Betty apologized. “I thought you would be in the studio. I left the script for Valiant Journey on top of the organ in Studio B.”

“Oh, thank you,” Jeff said. “And congratulations! I just heard the news.” He glanced over at Hilary, who was making some sort of frantic gesture. She stopped abruptly as Betty glanced in her direction.

“Heard what news?” Betty asked, confusion wrinkling her brow. “I just checked the teletype, and it looked like a pretty quiet morning...”

“No, I meant... about the wedding...” Jeff squinted at Hilary, who had stood and was slashing her hand in front of her throat.

Betty's eyes widened. “Oh! That.” Then she looked bewildered: “How did you know? I hadn't told anyone yet...”

Too late, Jeff recognized Hilary's signal. “A... little bird whispered something about it. Just a rumor,” he backpedaled.

“Well, it's not that important, I suppose,” Betty shrugged. “I was going to tell everyone this evening, anyway.”

Jeff was a little surprised by her blasé attitude. “Are you nervous?” he asked.

Betty shook her head. “No, not really. I was a little scared the first time I was asked, but now that I've been through it a few times, it's not so exciting.”

Jeff and Hilary exchanged wide-eyed glances over Betty's head. Apparently their quiet little farm girl had more of a history than they had expected.

“I hope it's not rude to ask, but... who was the first to ask you?” Hilary ventured.

Betty smiled with fond remembrance. “A classmate of mine, back in Elkhart. We were very good friends, so it was only natural, but I was so young at the time that I didn't know what to do.”

Jeff smiled and breathed a sigh of relief, and he saw the expression mirrored on Hilary's face. Of course kids in school would fall in love and think of getting married; that was to be expected. Betty was an attractive girl, so it wasn't surprising that she would have had a proposal or two.

“And the next one was my cousin,” Betty continued. “That one was a little more complicated, since the whole family was involved.”

Jeff blinked at that. “I… can imagine that would be… quite complicated, yes.” He saw movement from the corner of his eye. Scott, apparently revived by the sound of Betty's voice, was peering over the back of the sofa. He looked as startled by the cousin-proposal as Jeff felt.

“And then there was the one where simply _everything_ went wrong,” Betty was saying. “It was awful; it almost put me off weddings for good. We had to plan everything quickly. It was the middle of summer, and the church was simply sweltering. Some of the guests fainted, and one of the bridesmaids became ill. And after all that trouble, the groom decided he didn't want to get married after all, and ran out halfway through the ceremony.”

Jeff reeled at this revelation. Someone had stranded Betty at the altar? It was unthinkable!

“Oh, Betty, dear, I'm sorry,” Hilary was saying, for once sounding completely sincere—perhaps she had been shocked into it. “That must have been terrible for you.”

Betty nodded. “It was certainly an experience—though I think it was worse for the groom's family, after everyone learned what a rat their son was. I had to try to patch everything up afterward. But at least it taught me how _not_ to plan a wedding, which I'm sure will come in handy some day!”

“What was his name?” Scott's gravelly voice crept over the couch. Betty jumped at the sound.

“Scott, I didn't see you there!” Betty frowned. “Scott, you look terrible! Are you sick?” She started toward him, but he shook his head.

“Long night,” he said. “The groom, who left... what was his name?”

Betty’s brow furrowed for a moment. “Tony Johnston. I went to school with him, too. Why do you ask?”

“In case I ever meet 'im, I'll punch 'im for you,” Scott mumbled, his red-rimmed eyes fixed on the carpet.

Betty frowned and glanced at her watch. “Scott, you're supposed to be on the air in a little over fifteen minutes. You should get cleaned up and have some coffee; Lord Brendan can't go on the air sounding like that!”

“Lord Brendan's getting married today,” Scott said in a low voice.

“Yes, he is—well, until the evil Count Malamar kidnaps Mavis just before the 'I dos'. I think that's today's episode; I wrote the whole week's run in one sitting.”

“Lord Brendan would never leave Mavis at the altar,” Scott continued morosely. “Even if Mavis wanted to marry someone else, Lord Brendan would always be there for her...”

“Oh, will you look at the time!” Jeff stepped between Betty and Scott, flicking back his sleeve to glance at his bare wrist. Betty stared at him as if he'd been possessed, and then shot a suspicious glance at the limp Scott hanging over the couch. Jeff moved to block her view. “Hilary, we ought to rehearse. Betty, why don't you go take a nice early lunch? You deserve it, today of all days...” He ushered the protesting Betty out the door and gave her a good start down the hallway before pulling the green room doors together.

Jeff circled the sofa and scooped Scott up by the arms, turning him to face forward. “Hilary, find a cup and let’s get some of that coffee into Sherwood before he says something he really regrets.”

Hilary arched one of her perfectly penciled brows and plopped the entire carafe on the coffee table in front of them. “I don’t think there’s enough coffee in the world for that,” she added. She took a seat at the table and began paging through one of last week’s magazines. “Though frankly, I think he’d be better off just telling her how he feels, rather than all this moping about. Even Florence Nightingale wouldn’t be moved by his condition.”

**Author's Note:**

> ...and that's where the notebook switched back to trigonometry notes.
> 
> I know the intended resolution, which was that Betty had weddings on the brain because her best friend from back home in Elkhart, Indiana had asked her to be maid of honor in her wedding, and she was trying to help plan the wedding in between running the zoo at WENN. I don't remember how this was revealed, or what other madcap adventures occurred before the truth came out, but I'm sure 16-year-old me had ambitious plans.
> 
> So, much like _Remember WENN_ itself, our story is left without an ending. Feel free to imagine (or write) your own conclusions.


End file.
